


Letters to Past Lovers

by Someonewhosfunny



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Friends With Benefits, Long-Distance Relationship, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Past Relationship(s), Post-Break Up, Secret Relationship, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-13 01:02:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7956034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Someonewhosfunny/pseuds/Someonewhosfunny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long story short, I like to destroy my favorite ships. So if you like gerlonso, sernando, fabsillas, becksillas, fabrique, or criska pain, this is definitely for you. </p><p>[Disclaimer, not written in the form of letters. Simply a collection of reflections and flashbacks of previous relationships, based on a poem I found on the internet.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. we were young

**Author's Note:**

> So I started writing this at the end of 2013, but ended up taking a long hiatus. This summer, I decided to make it my special project, so here it is. Finally done! I hope at least one person likes reading this as much as I liked writing it. 
> 
> Based on this poem: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/171207223313910663/

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cesc Fabregas/Gerard Pique  
> Set 2003

_1; we were young_

Cesc kissed Gerard for the first time behind a tree at La Masia. They were fourteen, Geri tasted like cherries, and the world seemed to be at their disposal.

“We’re going to be the best Barcelona team in the world!” Gerard would always brag. “We’re gonna win La Liga, the Copa-”

“Even the Champions League?” Cesc would ask, wide eyed and awed.

“Yeah even that,” he’d reply confidently.

They often had these talks, dreaming of their successful futures, but they were different than some of the other boys in their academy. They didn’t just like winning; they were drunk on it. Intoxicated by the notion of success, of one day making up the best team to ever play under the lights of the Camp Nou. They were young kids utterly in love with the world’s most beautiful game and addicted to the feeling of a ball at their feet. It wasn’t about money or fame to them; they just wanted to be able to play this game for the rest of their lives. Together. For the team that was in their blood.

The first time Cesc realized he was in love with Geri he was thirteen and hiding from his parents’ divorce. Gerard’s family had offered him refuge and he’d eagerly agreed to sleep over, feeling more at home there than his own house.

It was late in the night and there were half empty pizza boxes strewn across the floor. Discarded controllers and open cases were the remnants of a 5 hour ProEvo tournament. They were tired and a movie played softly on the TV as Cesc and Gerard laid across the couch.

Cesc watched the blue light wash over Geri’s tan skin and he felt a tingling in the tips of his fingers. His eyes raked down his body, noticing for the first time the way his plaid pants sheathed his long, gangly legs and how his white shirt clung to his bony chest. Cesc wanted to bury his face in the softness of Geri’s hair, breathe him in, and never have to move. Instead, he curled delicately into his side and fell asleep with an arm thrown across Geri’s torso, his parents asleep upstairs.

Cesc often thought of these memories when he was sitting alone in his cold room in England. These days he couldn’t stop himself from looking around the training ground for his best friend to be following closely behind him. But of course, Gerard wouldn’t be there. He was back in Spain, mad, because a few months ago, Cesc was forced to decide which he loved more: football or Geri. When he was younger, he thought he could have both but that didn’t seem to be the case anymore. For a long time, he was convinced that it would be him and Geri against the world forever, playing in the famous _blaugrana_ that they loved so fiercely. But Cesc soon realized they’d been silly to think they could keep this up. They had careers to manage and images to protect. Back then, he’d had his head in the clouds, but he knew now that professional success would come only with personal sacrifice. They’d made a promise to each other that they would be the best the world has ever seen and Cesc didn’t intend to break that promise. So instead, he broke his heart when he told Geri that they just couldn’t do it together.


	2. your bed became my home for months on end. Now I cringe and turn away when I see your face.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David Beckham/Iker Casillas  
> Set 2014

_2; your bed became my home for months on end._

_Now I cringe and turn away when I see your face._

It was hot and the Los Angeles sun was showing no mercy to the footballers powering through their second training session of the day. Iker liked training at the UCLA campus well enough. He knew that the younger guys enjoyed being in California for the preseason, but he preferred to be in Madrid, under the sun – the same one in California but somehow different. He missed the smell of the freshly cut grass and the sound of the busy city around them. But as much as he did genuinely miss Madrid, there was a bigger reason why he didn’t like training in Los Angeles, and his name was David Beckham.

He’d seen his face on the news this morning when he was in the hotel room. His tooth brush hung out of his mouth as he watched the woman on the screen prattle on about David and _soccer_ , _Romeo_ , _smiles_. Iker couldn’t understand much English, but any mention of _him_ , even in a foreign language was enough to make him change the channel. He thought he’d done enough to forget about the man, but it seems he was wrong. He still couldn’t shake it from his mind, even as he trained.

Iker was walking back to the bench for a long swig of water when he heard the familiar voice of Sergio Ramos.

“Iker!”

He turned to greet him, but froze when he saw the person standing behind his best friend.

“Look who finally came to visit his old teammates!”

Sergio’s voice was as friendly and warm as always, but his eyes, shielded from everyone but Iker, were full of apology and pity.

That pity and apology meant very little when he was standing face to face with David Beckham. The gods and the fates and every power acting upon the mortal Earth must have hated him because one, he was sweaty and gross and in no condition to be seen by his ex (if that was even the right word for this). Two, he was coming off the worst season of his life and he had no doubts that David was keenly aware of that. And three, Romeo was standing there, beaming at Iker, and it was just another reminder of the perfect family he almost, nearly, very possibly could have broken up.

“It’s good to see you, Iker,” David smiled, voice filled with a tenderness that nearly caused Iker to flinch.

David wasn’t _allowed_ to speak to him that way. He wasn’t allowed to walk back into his life and make Iker feel things he didn’t want to feel. It wasn’t fair that one word, _Iker_ , could undermine all of his defenses. He hated that it only took one look to melt his heart of stone.

He forced a smile back and David pulled him into a hug. It was painfully familiar and foreign all at once. David was still impenetrable muscle, sculpted meticulously and inked to perfection, but he had lost the soft quality that Iker remembered best when he was curled up in bed in the early morning. Now the fibers of his muscles were taut. Restrained. Iker wasn’t allowed to see David the way he had been. Tender, affectionate, and languid was a state only an exclusive group of people were allowed to see. He was not one of them anymore.

The places David’s skin touched his burned.

And it was weird for Iker to think that he used to live in this man’s skin. He knew the texture of his hair when he used his favorite gel. Even if he hated the feeling under his fingers, complained constantly that he preferred it natural. Iker also knew that, despite what David said, he’d never minded when Iker ruined it with his eager and possessive hands. In the mornings after their encounters, it was messy against Iker’s cheek.

Iker knew the _solliage_ of David’s cologne on the sheets, detectable long after David had gone (and Iker could still remember the sound of the word _solliage_ falling off David’s lips. The French word sounded so romantic, so delicate, that Iker swore in that moment he’d never loved anyone so much.)

He used to memorize the crinkled lines around David’s eyes. Would’ve been able to identify David’s skin with just one blind touch. Would know, even in half sleep, the feel of his lips with just one brush. At one time, there was no one in this world Iker knew as completely as David. But now he was a complete stranger and Iker couldn’t even look him in the eyes.


	3. a bit too forward for my liking; I was still heartbroken, all I wanted was a friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cesc Fabregas/Gerard Pique  
> Set 2010

_3; a bit too forward for my liking;_

_I was still heartbroken,_

_all I wanted was a friend_

It was supposed to be one of the best nights of their lives. They were celebrating their first World Cup, Spain’s first World Cup, and it was almost surreal that this team had accomplished so much. Cesc had dreamed about this moment ever since he was a boy and nothing should be able to sour his mood. He’d been elated, high on expensive champagne and the feeling of being a champion, but when Puyol and Pique pulled that jersey over him, the whole situation came crashing down. He kept a smile on his face, but being wrapped in the blue and red jersey felt like suffocating. It was like a bucket of ice was poured over his head to sober him up and once he and Gerard were alone, he couldn’t contain his anger.

“You’re such an asshole, Geri!” he accused, pushing his best friend back into a wall.

“What?” Gerard held his hands up in innocence, cocking his head in confusion until it dawned on him. “Oh, the prank? Come on. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Of course it was!” Cesc seethed. “You forced me into a Barcelona jersey in front of the entire country, the entire world! Do you know what they’re going to say back in England?”

Dread pooled in his stomach at the headlines that were already being formed. Tomorrow, when people opened the Sun or the Daily Mail, they’d see him paraded around on a stage wearing a jersey that most definitely wasn’t Arsenal’s.

“Who cares what they say?”

Gerard’s nonchalance had Cesc almost struggling for words. Nothing fazed the Catalonian defender, which was good on the pitch, but turning out to be a real negative during this conversation. He knew his best friend could be dense sometimes, but this was something else.

“Me! The one who has to lives there, remember? I have my career there. The supporters are going to hate me, thinking I want to leave for Barca.”

“Well, don’t you?”

The indignation in Gerard’s expression made Cesc slow down. He sighed, running a hand over his face.

“It’s not that simple.”

“It sounds simple to me.” Gerard shrugged, stubbornness seeping through. “You want to come home. The club wants you to come home. I want you to come home. What’s stopping you?” There was a challenge in his voice.

“I’m their captain, Geri! I have a responsibility.”

“And you’ll put that before your family?” he accused.

And Cesc didn’t understand why it was so difficult for Gerard to understand obligation. He was a footballer; he knew how demanding their line of work was, but he refused to see the stress on Cesc’s shoulders. Maybe it was the society that Geri had been born into or the way he always got exactly what he wanted, but he just couldn’t understand. He was unwilling do to anything except paint Cesc as the one being impossible here.

“My parents will understand.”

“I’m not talking about that family.” Gerard stepped closer to Cesc, as if he was physically willing him to understand. “Barcelona is where you belong. You were born _blaugrana_. Remember what we used to say to each other? We were going to win everything together. Don’t you want that anymore? You haven’t won anything with Arsenal and you never will, no matter how hard you try. So come home. You didn’t fail. You did well so now come back and take the jersey you rightfully deserve. The one Guardiola said you’d have. The one he’s trying to give to you now.”

“Maybe I don’t want to come back right now!” Cesc exploded, trying to push away the appeal of Gerard’s offer. If he kept talking, maybe his insidious words wouldn’t sink in and this wouldn’t be so hard for Cesc. “I like it in London. I like my friends… my teammates. My boss.”

There was a hurt expression crossing Gerard’s features and Cesc needed to look away if he wanted to keep his composure.

“What about me?”

“What _about_ you, Geri?” he huffed, looking up again with something like steel in his eyes.

“Don’t you want to come home for _me_?” Gerard was pleading with his own eyes, begging for Cesc to say yes, but all he could do was look away again. He was a coward when it came to Geri. One of them needed to do the right thing and it had to be him. But Gerard didn’t make it easy.

“Stop it. That’s over. It’s been over, you know that.”

“It doesn’t have to be, though. If you’d just come home...”

Cesc could hear the desperation in Gerard’s voice as he dangled the offer in front of him. He made it sound so easy. Like Cesc just needed to give in, convince Arsene to sell him this season, tell him he wanted to go home. If he just stopped fighting and took the offer, he’d be back in Barcelona in a couple of weeks. Back to the place he was born. Raised. But not exactly raised, because it was London where Arsene Wenger turned a clumsy boy from Spain into a man, a leader. Cesc owed Arsene everything in football. He believed in him when Barcelona has turned their backs. He taught him how to be a professional footballer and a damn good one at that. He also taught him how to be a man with honor and integrity. Cesc owed him more than he had to give. He couldn’t betray him like this.

“Why do you have to do this? You make me feel so guilty! You get your hopes up so high and I’m too afraid to let you down. But I’m doing what’s best for me. If you’re really my friend, you’ll understand that I have to stay. At least for now. You have to be _patient_.”

How could he turn his back on someone like Arsene, who’d been something of a second father to him? Even if doing so would mean returning to Spain. Even if it meant showing Barcelona that they were wrong about not taking him from the start. Even if it meant he could be back with Geri, day in and day out, just like they used to be. Sharing a pitch, a locker room. Maybe even a house. Partners in crime again. _Partners_. It would be like old times and Cesc knew that the second they were back together, he’d lose all his resolve.

“It’s not fair that you do this,” Cesc continued. “You know how I feel and you know it doesn’t matter. We can never be like that again, whether I’m in London or Barcelona. We’re friends, Geri. That’s all we can ever be.”

It was so damn easy to fall in love with Gerard. Hell, Cesc was still in love with him now; he just pushed it away. In London, when there were miles between them, it was easier to forget the way it felt to be together. To be _CescandGeri_. How Gerard’s smile, trained right on him, was enough to send shock waves up his spine. How nothing, not even extra training sessions, could turn his muscles to liquid like Gerard pulling him in close, pressing his lips against the crown of his head. Cesc can hear his voice on the phone, read his messages every day, and convince himself that he doesn’t miss the sound of Gerard’s heartbeat pressed right to his ear as he fell asleep. In England, he could pretend. If he and Geri were back in the same city all the time, living in each other’s pockets, Cesc would forget all of the reasons why he wasn’t supposed to be in love with his best friend.

Gerard watched him, surprise and regret clear on his face. Cesc was crying in earnest, angrily running the back of his hand over his eyes to stop the tears from dripping down. His chest was heaving as small sobs escaped. It dawned on Cesc that Gerard probably hadn’t seen him cry this hard since they were kids, when a hug was enough to make everything better. But now, Cesc didn’t know what would make this better. Tonight was supposed to be the best night of their lives, but it wasn’t the way they’d pictured it at all. Or maybe, it was too close. Cesc stormed into the hallway blindly, leaving a dejected looking Gerard behind before he could do something stupid like kiss him.


	4. our only connection was loneliness. it wasn’t enough.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cristiano Ronaldo/Iker Casillas  
> Set 2009

_4; our only connection was_

_loneliness._

_it wasn’t enough._

He was used to it by now. Replacing Beckham. It had happened for the first time in England, when he arrived at Manchester an 18 year old kid who felt too skinny, too inexperienced, and too foreign. He hadn’t known the language very well, hadn’t understood the culture, but he wanted to be accepted. He thought that if he could just show everyone how good he was on the ball, then people would start believing he belonged. Unfortunately for him, the acceptance of his teammates didn’t come easily.

Cristiano was used to teasing from his time in the Sporting Academy, but Manchester was different. From his first steps in the United dressing room, he felt like he was doing everything wrong. His teammates criticized everything from his clothes to his appearance to his style on the pitch. He didn’t understand why they didn’t like him. He used to get upset, try to respond to their remarks, but that just spurred them on more. He tried to show them what he could do on the pitch, but they just yelled at him in a language he couldn’t understand whenever he try something interesting like a chip or a back heel.

The expectations that arrived with him didn’t help matters at all. Sir Alex had insisted he inherit the esteemed number 7 jersey, worn by the likes of George Best, Eric Cantona, and most recently, David Beckham. Cristiano was petrified at the thought of inheriting such a shirt. It was a lot of pressure, but after the initial shock, he was confident he would live up to the expectations. Little did he know, the team would use his shirt number to mock him even more. They used to say that he was keeping the jersey warm for Beckham, that the Essex man wouldn’t be happy when he came back to see Cristiano using all his stuff. It used to frustrate him that they weren’t just jokes. Even on the pitch, teammates would say, “Why can’t you cross like Becks? Why do you dribble?” He just wanted to be _Cristiano Ronaldo_ , not David Beckham’s replacement. It led to a mild hatred for the Brit, because it took years of trying before he finally established himself as his own person. Until, during his last season at United, no one even said his name anymore, just Cristiano’s. They finally cared about Cristiano, the best player in the world.

Coming to Madrid, he thought he would be safe from that kind of comparison. Yes, Beckham had played for Real, but he’d left two years prior to Cristiano’s arrival. Surely, they’d forgotten about him. He hadn’t been _that_ good.

So when Cristiano was given a king’s welcome to the Bernabeu, he told himself that his worry had been for nothing. They loved him for who he was. He wasn’t filling any gaping holes left by a certain Englishman.

It wasn’t difficult to assimilate, like it had been in Manchester. Cristiano perfected Spanish easily and fit into the fiber of the team effortlessly. He could have a laugh with his teammates and finally, it wasn’t at his own expense. They didn’t heckle him when he was creative on the ball, hell they even encouraged it. He was getting praise for his step overs. His dribbling lauded. They started every practice playing keepie uppie and his teammates cooed when he showed flashes of skill. Cristiano was thriving. He was smiling more than he ever had. Everyone was so friendly, so nice. He got hugs and kisses on the cheek when he scored rather than rough slaps on the back and a violent shaking of the shoulders.

Everyone was good natured towards him, eager to smile and easy to please, except for Iker, who was more bashful and grumpy. He tried very hard to put on his best serious face at training and games because of the captaincy he had recently inherited. So far, only Sergio could get him to loosen up, eliciting reluctant smiles and rueful pats on the head, but Cristiano made it his personal mission to change that. He would get Iker to smile, too.

Cristiano tried everything he could. He made jokes when they were sat together on the bench during pre-season. He jumped on his back at training and crushed him in hugs until he was choking on his laughter. He became an annoying little puppy that Iker couldn’t shake off and after a while, Iker stopped wanting to. He had slowly warmed up to Cristiano. It was no longer a one side relationship. Iker started to seek Cris out, caressing his face, pulling him into embraces. Cris preened under the attention, basking in the feeling of being wanted and appreciated. Many peopled called him the best player in the world by this time, but when it came from Iker, it felt different. It didn’t feel like a testament to his physical ability, but like a term of endearment. _Best player in the world. Mi amor_. The phrases were synonymous to Cristiano. Someone cared about him here in Madrid; that was all he had wanted.

Cristiano started inviting Iker to his extra training sessions under the guise of needing a keeper. They always got work done, but after a while, the sessions dissolved into Cristiano and Iker sprawled on the grass, talking about life. In turn, Iker began inviting Cristiano to hang out outside of the training grounds as well. He brought him into the city a few times, where they’d grab dinner at a place Iker’s friend owned. But mostly, they hung out at the keeper’s house. Sometimes, they were joined by Sergio, but usually, it was just the two of them, watching TV or a movie on the couch. Iker wasn’t his first real friend in Spain, but he was different. He was the first to make him feel at home in his new city.

Cristiano began spending so much time at Iker’s place that he might as well have sold his own. He was half in love with Iker before he’d even known what hit him and things were great, until Sergio pulled him aside one day, face an uncharacteristic picture of concerned.

“You and Iker have been getting close.”

Cristiano replied coolly. “Yeah, what’s wrong about that?”

“Nothing. It’s just… I thought I should warn you,” Sergio started hesitantly.

“What about?”

And that’s when Sergio showed him the pictures. Tons of shots of Iker and Beckham, hugging and goofing off at training. Iker nuzzling his face into the crock of Beckham’s neck. It stunned Cristiano, not because the pictures were unusual, but because they looked exactly like Iker and himself.

“Were they…?” he asked carefully.

“Yeah. For a long time. Even after Beckham left. They tried to keep things going long distance, but eventually it was getting too hard. David’s married and all, in a very high profile way. He told Iker he was ready to leave Victoria once and for all, but then he got cold feet at the last minute. Called their whole relationship off. Iker was devastated.”

“How long ago?”

Sergio looked remorsefully at the toe of his shoe.

“The end of last season.”

All of Cristiano’s thoughts from years ago returned to him. He was the replacement. For David _fucking_ Beckham. Again. This time is wasn’t his right foot or his stunning free kicks someone was after, but his heart. This was worse.

So when Iker came over to him after training, draping his arm around his shoulders, Cristiano flinched and the confused look Iker sent him was immediate.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Cristiano replied coldly, trying to suffocate the anger building in him.

Iker, who had never witnessed Cristiano’s displeasure firsthand, proceeded unsurely.

“I was wondering if you wanted to grab dinner. Maybe go to the cinema. There’s a Portuguese film playing.”

The offer was innocent, but set Cristiano’s blood boiling.

“Wouldn’t you rather ask Golden Balls? I’m sure you’d much prefer his company, although I don’t think you’d be able to understand a film in English very well.”

Realization, and a hint of embarrassment, dawned on Iker’s features.

“Cristiano…”

“Do you care for me at all? Or were you just hoping that one day instead of waking up next to me there’d be a tattooed Englishman in your bed? Should I have put on my best English accent and worn my old United shirt? Made it a bit more authentic for you to pretend?”

He could see the hurt in Iker’s expression and if Cristiano wasn’t feeling so betrayed, he would’ve felt guilty for putting it there. He could’ve really loved Iker if he’d gotten the chance. He thought the world of the keeper, but that wasn’t enough. The attention, the praise, it felt so good. It made him feel like he belonged somewhere, but it still wasn’t enough. Being made David Beckham’s second rate replacement yet again wasn’t enough.


	5. I really blew it, eh?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fernando Torres/Sergio Ramos  
> Set 2009

_5; I really blew it, eh?_

_Act natural_ , Fernando commanded, hesitating in the doorway of the dressing room. _I’m good enough to be here. They don’t scare me._

He could hear the familiar singing of “You’ll Never Walk Alone” from inside the stadium but it didn’t comfort him the way it usually did. There was a game to be played, a Champions League last sixteen match to be exact, and Fernando couldn’t be distracted by the memory of his last time in the Bernabeu. Couldn’t let himself fixate on the words that were exchanged or the way they made him feel like a piece of himself was being ripped out. 

The singing was louder in the tunnel when Fernando finally entered, rubbing his damp palms on his uniform shorts. Still, it was easy enough to hear the commotion of the players. The rapid Spanish around him felt foreign despite the fact that, as much as Fernando hated it, more of those voices were familiar to him than he would’ve liked. Especially one, which seemed to be getting closer. Fernando squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he were anywhere else in the world.

“Nando?”

Fernando glanced at Sergio’s outstretched hand like it could blow up in his face and tried not to let the tension in his shoulders show as he shook it tentatively.

Sergio nodded. “Buena suerte, hermano.”

 “Usted también,” Fernando replied, voice shaky and eyes locked to the back of Jamie Carragher’s head.

If he thought the familiarity of this situation was bad, the glaring difference between Sergio’s words this time versus last time was worse. Fernando was biting back the tears that sprung to his eyes, because now he was _hermano_ when before he was _mi vida_ and Sergio’s parting message was _good luck_ instead of _no matter how this goes I’ll still love you_. But as it turned out, love hadn’t been enough after those 90 minutes on the pitch.

Fernando was naïve to think this would have any other ending. At twenty-one years old, he had been young enough to believe things had a way of working themselves out. But it wasn’t his fault, really. If anything, it was Sergio’s. Fernando had tried to keep his distance, but it seemed Sergio was unwilling to comply. The more Fernando ignored him, the more he had worked to gain his favor.

When they first started training together for the national team, it was obvious Sergio was seeking his approval. Fernando felt his gaze on him constantly, but he just kept his eyes down, using his established shyness to keep himself out of Sergio’s path.

It wasn’t that Fernando hated the young defender. He didn’t even _know_ him. Just knew he was a _blanco_ (he’d signed for Real Madrid at the start of the season) and that was enough for Fernando to know they couldn’t be friends. Not while Fernando was the captain of Atleti. As long as he had rojiblanco blood pumping through his veins, Sergio would be the enemy. Fernando was born to hate him.

But that proved to be all but impossible. When Spain beat San Marino six to nil, Fernando’s plan went flying out the window. It was a thrashing and Fernando had been too elated during the game to keep up his cold shoulder intact. Sergio scored twice while Fernando bagged a hat trick, and the striker found himself unconsciously leaning into Sergio’s touch during their goal celebrations.

After that, it was hard to ignore Sergio. Yes, he was a _madridista_ , but he was also sunshine incarnate and when he smiled, he beamed. When he laughed, Fernando could feel the world move under him. Sergio was friendly, warm, and Fernando couldn’t stay frosty for long.

“Why do you always smell so good?” he’d asked during a break at training, not needing to turn around to know Sergio was trailing behind him like a puppy. 

The Sevillian laughed easily, lazily, and it unnerved Fernando how relaxed he always seemed.

“So, you’re noticing the way I smell now?”

Fernand’s face went red in embarrassment and he crossed his arms defensively.

“Well how can I not when you’re never more than two feet from me?”

“It’s tanning oil,” Sergio explained, unbothered by the jab. “Do you like it?”

He looked at Fernando expectantly, hopefully, and the striker had to avert his eyes, like Sergio really was the sun and Fernando had been caught without his shades on. 

“Its fine, I guess,” he shrugged noncommittally.

Sergio smiled as if Fernando had given him an actual compliment and continued undeterred.

“I would offer you some, but I’m afraid a ghost like you would just burn.”

Fernando picked up his head up to see Sergio smirking slightly. He wanted to be indignant, annoyed because it was Sergio, but he couldn’t be.

“Then you’d become so covered in freckles,” Sergio continued, “that no one would be able to see your pale skin anyway.”

He just had time to roll his eyes at Sergio before the whistle blew, beckoning them back to the pitch. From then on, Fernando found himself constantly inhaling the coconut fragrance. When Sergio was pressed against him in training. Or pressed against him on the bus. Or laying in his hotel bed playing ProEvo. Sergio always left behind his signature scent and the remnants of his body heat on Fernando’s bed sheets.

Before long, it wasn’t unusual to see a loud Sergio parading around the training ground with a giggly Fernando glued to his side. It was the 2006 World Cup and it was easy for Fernando to forget that all of this was temporary, that after a month they’d stop being teammates and go back to being rivals. International break felt like a different world, one where Fernando could have the person he was pining after, no matter how off limits they seemed.

The pair shared a secret kiss in the stadium after a group stage victory and afterwards, Fernando couldn’t help wondering if it would happen again. He’d felt himself come alive when Sergio’s rough lips pressed softly to his, heart hammering in his chest like he was making a long run down the field. Once Fernando got a glimpse of what they could be, he couldn’t keep himself from imagining what it would be like to kiss Sergio again for more than just a fleeting moment. Of what it would be like to be able to do it all the time.

That’s how they started, kisses here and there when they were dizzy from the rush of playing on the big stage and winning. Their nights were filled with urgency. Sergio pushing Fernando against the door. Too rough touches and whispered promises that this didn’t need to end when the tournament finished. They both lived in Madrid. They could do this all the time, fill their houses with the sound of lazy kisses, wrestling for covers, and giggle fits in the middle of the night. They were naïve, but they had been in love, uninhibited and all consuming.

But back home in Madrid, it was harder to forget the things that separated them. Burned into their chests were the crests of clubs whose bitter rivalry stretched back as far as any living person could remember. It transcended football; it was a clash of identities in the Spanish capital. Fernando grew up in the working class district of Madrid, a fact that no one ever let him forget. He knew he didn’t have as much as some of the other people, but it was never as apparent as the day he got bullied for wearing his Atleti jersey to school. Everyone else had Real jerseys on (it was the cool thing to do) and despite the taunting, Fernando refused to give in. From that day on, Real Madrid became the physical embodiment of Madrid’s elite, the upper echelon that sought to make him feel inferior. He detested the club with everything in him. It was wired into his brain in a way that Sergio couldn’t understand. He lived in Madrid, but would never be able to identify with the cultural divide he was representing, not like Fernando did. This was never more apparent than their last ever derby.

It started innocently enough. Nervous energy was running through Fernando as he stood in the tunnel, securing his armband around his bicep when a tanned hand reached out to brush his.

“Nervous?” Sergio asked quietly.

Fernando looked up, smiled.

“Nope. Only thing worrying me is how Iker’s gonna react when one of my strikes goes flying past his head.”

Sergio rolled his eyes. “Idiot.”

“I don’t know. Do you think he’ll let you kiss me after?”

Fernando’s breath was hot against Sergio’s ear.

“You know it doesn’t matter to me, Nando. I’ll kiss you even if you score a hat trick.”

“Hmm. Hat trick, you say? I’ll see what I can do.”

Sergio laughed, cupping Fernando’s smiling face, and watched the tension drain from his muscles. He pressed his lips to the striker’s cheek.

“Don’t worry, mi vida. You’ll be great.”

As Sergio walked back to his teammates, Fernando didn’t even try to hide his smile. One glance at his teammates, though, had his grin slipping right off his face. The disapproval was clear in their eyes and Fernando felt a heavy weight settling down on his chest. The weight only got heavier when, as they took the field, one of his teammates ran by, letting out a sarcastic quip.

“Great to see our captain fraternizing with the enemy.”

By the end of the half, Fernando was determined to amend his earlier blunder. He dutifully shrugged off Sergio’s advance on the field, fleeing to the locker room as quickly as he could. When they arrived back in the tunnel for the second half, he continued with his cold demeanor, keeping his eyes pointedly away from the Real Madrid line up. The sound of cleats approaching behind him made him break out in a cold sweat.

“Fer?”

“Go away. Please.”

Fernando could feel his teammates’ stares on his back and he gritted his teeth.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” Fernando insisted, purposefully turning his head away from Sergio.  “Just leave me alone.” 

A quick glance in Sergio’s direction revealed a hurt expression that had Fernando’s insides twisting. He wanted so badly to reach out, to pull Sergio tight against him, but he refrained. He stood, still as a statue, until he could hear Sergio retreating.

It was clear that Sergio was angry with him. Fernando could feel his glare all the way from the other side of the pitch, but he never expected it to culminate the way it did. He was running down the field, absolutely flying past defenders as he made his way towards goal. He was vaguely aware of Sergio on his right, but when he felt the contact, he was shocked.  Fernando had barely known what hit him when he was lying on his back, staring up into the black sky. He could hear the sound of angry voices around him, but he couldn’t get up to join in. All he could do was touch his face, first for blood and next for tears. The pain he felt went beyond just the blow to the face.

Fernando’s heart sunk as Sergio got his marching orders. Red card. His game was done.

Watching Sergio walk away felt like a premonition. Fernando could feel the defender slipping away from him more with every step he took towards the locker room. For the rest of the game, he could not shake off the fear that something had happened between them that couldn’t be fixed.

When Fernando finally got around to checking his phone in the locker room, he saw his biggest fear realized.

_Maybe this isn’t going to work after all._

No amount of mental preparation could keep those words from crushing Fernando when he finally worked up the nerve to read them. The nausea hit him instantly and Fernando barely remembers throwing up in the nearest waste basket. He drove home in a blur, spent all night trashing his apartment, and decided right then and there that this was too much for him. The expectations of Atleti were too heavy on his shoulders and if he stayed any longer, they would crush him to death.

That’s how Fernando ended up at Liverpool Football Club, a team twelve hundred miles away and with a rich history of their own. He was hoping for a fresh start, to rid himself of the baggage that came with Madrid, but here he was now. Back at the Bernabeu again, reliving a history that he couldn’t escape and regretting, not for the first time, choosing his side of the city over love.


	6. there’s nothing more to write of you that the rest of my notebook hasn’t already said, except this: thank you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xabi Alonso/Steven Gerrard  
> Set 2015

_6; there’s nothing more to write of you_

_that the rest of my notebook_

_hasn’t already said, except this:_

_thank you._

Players were milling around, smiling at teammates and chatting to friends they hadn’t seen in a while. The atmosphere was pleasant in a way it almost never was after matches. During the league, half of the stadium went home disappointed while the other half went home victorious, but tonight at Anfield, there were no frowns. The game had been for charity, organized by Steven Gerrard and Jaime Carragher. The Liverpool All-star game was what they had called it and players from all over the world came to re-experience their former Merseyside glory. All of the players were enthusiastic, but none more so than a certain Spaniard doing his post-match interview.

“Xabi what was it like to come back and get such a good reception?”

‘”Well, of course I was really looking forward to the game,” Xabi replied, kicking into autopilot for the interview that only took a handful of minutes. When he was finished, he went back out onto the pitch, reluctant to leave because he knew this time would really be his last.  

Xabi remembered the day Steven called him. If he’s honest, he was expecting it. Pepe had already gotten the call, throwing it in his face that Stevie clearly liked him better, but Xabi just rolled his eyes, knowing – hoping and praying – his call would be soon.

He just hadn’t spoken to Stevie in a while. They were friendly, incredibly so, with a healthy amount of respect for one another, but neither of them were particularly fond of phone calls and they didn’t see nearly enough of one another. Definitely not enough for Xabi’s taste, but that was to be expected. Everything they were to each other was in the past tense. _Former teammates_. _Past lovers_. Their only relationship now was friendship and that meant Xabi had no idea exactly what Stevie was doing with his life. Sure, they exchanged text messages back and forth, but it wasn’t the same. Xabi longed to hear the infamous, incorrigible scouse.

When Stevie finally did call, he barely got the words out before Xabi was agreeing.

“I’ll be there.”

“You’re sure you don’t have a game or anything?” Stevie pressed.

“I’ll work it out with Pep. Don’t worry.”

Xabi could practically hear the blush spreading across Stevie’s face.

“I just wouldn’t want to mess up your season or anything for a silly all-star-”

“It’s for _charity_ , Stevie,” he interrupted. “And it gives me a chance to go back to Anfield. Back home in a way. I wouldn’t miss it.”

 _Home._ How could he not consider Liverpool his home? It was only under those lights, only with the sound of 45,000 Kopites chanting his name, that he felt alive. Being on that pitch made his heart swell with pride so quickly that Xabi was always afraid it would burst right there in front of the whole city. The day he left, it felt like someone had poured cement into those same chambers. He felt like it was going to stop beating all together because how could Madrid make him feel the way Liverpool did.

 “It’ll give you a chance to say a proper goodbye,” Stevie added, as if he could read his mind.

Xabi never did get to say goodbye to the club he came to love, because in all honesty, he wasn’t expecting the news when it came. He’d put the transfer request in before that season, back when the club seemed keen to replace him with Gareth Barry. So he’d asked his agent to explore his options. Xabi had no way to know then that, in only a few months, the supporters would chant his name and beg him to never leave. But by then, Madrid would’ve offered too much, his entire weight in gold, and Liverpool couldn’t refuse. It wasn’t his choice in the end.

He hadn’t wanted to go. He didn’t know what he’d be without this place. And they said he’d never walk alone, but the trip up the stairs of the plane was the most solidary journey Xabi had ever taken. When he saw the Spanish flags hanging all over the Merseyside from his little plane window, he felt the full weight of what he was leaving behind: a city that loved him, and also a man. Not just a what, but a who.

“And it gives me a chance to be reunited with the best midfielder I’ve ever played with,” Xabi reminded, heart suddenly heavy. Stevie was the best in many ways; midfielder didn’t even begin to cover it.

“Hey, that’s my line,” he protested. “You’re me best midfielder and Nando lad is me best striker.”

“Is he? Even now?”

“Yes, even now.”

“I’ve always admired your loyalty, Stevie.”

“Are you saying you’re different, mate?”

“I’ve been at three other clubs, so you be the judge.”

 “You know that doesn’t matter where you’ve been, mate. It’s about where you’ve left your heart.”

Xabi hummed noncommittally, pretending to be thoughtful, and kept his honest response from passing through his lips. _Only with you._

He’d been pleased to get the chance to play with Stevie again, to pull the strings in the midfield just like old times. Xabi had wondered mildly if things would be different. If the seven years away erased the connection they had. There had been times when Xabi didn’t even need to look up to know where Stevie was. Back then, the players had a chemistry that could not be matched and Xabi had wondered what would happen when they were back together again. If the distance that had been forged between them over time could disappear on the field where magic was bound to happen.

During the match, it only took minutes before his doubts were eased. In all this time, it was as if they had never been apart. A piece of himself that was missing for so long had been filled in. With Stevie around, Xabi breathed a little easier. It only cemented his belief that no matter where they were or what they were doing, if Stevie was there by his side, nothing was out of their reach. Not even the impossible. Not even _Istanbul_ , when they were three goals down at the half and they felt like dead men walking. The belief was not there in the team, but Stevie never stopped dreaming. He gave them a memorable team talk that none of those players would forget. Captain Fantastic told them they would be European Champions. And not only did he tell them he believed it, but he showed them he believed it. When he put them on the board, he gave them a new life in the game. Stevie was a god that night. He was a hero and when the European trophy was in their hands and Stevie was leaning in, Xabi could not resist meeting him halfway and planting him with a kiss.

In that moment, how could he not love Stevie? Stevie was Liverpool and Liverpool was victory. Xabi could see nothing but red. Magnificent, exuberant, victorious red. Confetti rained down from the sky and the cheers around them were deafening. Xabi felt like the king of Europe with Stevie by his side, like there was nothing the two of them couldn’t conquer together. It was a feeling that stayed with him for years, buried deep into his chest. How could forget the man that proved the synonym for love was red?

Xabi is sure he could never thank Stevie enough for the opportunity to experience this all again, one last time at Anfield. An All Star charity match was no Istanbul, but it gave him a second chance, one that he had been robbed of. Stevie would never understand just how much Xabi owed him for letting him relive one of the best times of his life. A lot had changed in the years since he left Liverpool and Xabi hadn’t known if coming back would make him sad. He hadn’t known if he’d be spending the following days mourning and wondering what could have been, but now he knows that won’t be the case. He was grateful for the chance to come here and finally put an end to this part of his story. He’d loved a lot in this city, and lost a lot, but he never would have been the same without it. And it hurt that he couldn’t stay in this place forever with the only man he’d ever loved, but that’s not the way his life was meant to work out. They met at the wrong time, in the wrong profession, but that didn’t mean that his feelings were diminished in any way.

Xabi would always imagine Stevie in this place: Anfield. The two were inextricably tied together in Xabi’s mind. The fiery red they both embodied. Exuberant, magnificent, victorious red. That is how Xabi wanted to remember Stevie forever: scoring in front of the Kopp, clapping the fans, and bursting with pride, right from the bottom of his massive heart. He wanted to remember them like this: arms around each other as they walk across the field, faces pressed into necks after hitting the back of the net, and feeling utterly and entirely at home in the intimate company of thousands.

If he was given the chance to try again with Stevie, in Los Angeles or Munich once one of them was retired, Xabi thinks he would say no. Because nothing could beat this here. Nothing could beat Anfield and Liverpool and England and _this_. It was perfect, every damn second of his time in this bitch of a country, and to revisit it would surely ruin the whole thing. The book was closed, their story done, because _he and Stevie_ were not meant for Munich or California. A part of their hearts would always be in Liverpool, always be together – inseparable, two halves of one whole. Like maybe they would’ve been, if only in a different life. But in this life, Xabi was content with remembering.


	7. neither of us was prepared for what we were getting into. no hard feelings.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sergio Ramos/Fernando Torres  
> Set 2014

_7; neither of us was prepared_

_for what we were getting into._

_no hard feelings._

When Sergio heard his phone ringing, he was balanced precariously on a ladder, carefully applying painter’s tape around the molding of the ceiling. He ignored the shrill bell sounds as he tried to focus on the task at hand. It shouldn’t be so difficult to paint a little bedroom. Granted, he could have paid someone to do it, but wasn’t this all part of being a good man? Providing for your family and all that. Sergio wanted to prove that being a footballer didn’t mean he couldn’t be a handyman, too. Anyway, the room wasn’t that big. Sergio could definitely paint it himself, despite Iker’s lack of faith.

A minute later, the ringing of his phone began again, getting louder and sounding closer by the second.

“Your phone keeps ringing,” Pilar announced, standing in the doorway. “It might be important.”

“Alright, give me a second.”

“It’s looking good so far,” she complimented, appraising the area with a pleased expression. “But you should come to bed soon. It’s getting late.”

Sergio climbed down the ladder and moved towards Pilar, kissing her gently on the cheek as she handed him his phone.

“I will, _amor_. As soon as I’m off the phone, I’ll be right in.”

Pilar smiled as she left the room and Sergio watched her disappear down the hallway towards their bedroom. Before he could look down to check his missed calls, his phone was ringing again, incessantly begging for attention. Sergio answered immediately.

“Hello?”

“Congrats,” a familiar voice murmured warmly.

At the sound, Sergio’s pulse kicked up, thumping in his ear he identified the caller.

“Fernando…”

Sergio needed to work to keep his voice from cracking, but here Fernando was calling him like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like it was every day the person he used to love was expecting a child with his girlfriend. As if there wasn’t almost a decade of shared history between them that might make this kind of thing uncomfortable.

“You shouldn’t have called.”

Sergio struggled to keep his voice firm. It wasn’t fair that Fernando was doing this now, waltzing back into his life when he was finally getting it all together.

“What?” Fernando replied, feigned innocence seeping into his tone, “I can’t call my best friend to congratulate him on such big news?”

“Iker is my best friend,” he snapped, patience wearing thin. “And I’m pretty sure Pepe is yours.”

“I always wondered what kind of parent you’d be,” Fernando mused, ignoring Sergio entirely. “I’m sure you’ll spoil your child rotten, boy or girl. You’d be great with either. If it’s a girl, I can see you braiding hair and getting your nails painted. Or if it’s a boy, kicking a ball around in the yard. He’ll go to every match at the Bernabeu, of course, and you’ll be his hero. He’ll want to be just like you. Who wouldn’t?”

There was a dreamy quality to Fernando’s voice that Sergio immediately distrusted.

“How much have you had to drink tonight?”

He heard Fernando scoff under his breath.

“Just wine. I’m so tired. But don’t worry, I’m not drunk enough to confess my love to you from half a world away.”

Sergio closed his eyes, breath hitching in his throat. He hated how those words felt like a blow right to the chest. It was cruel that Fernando could call him, could say these romantic things to him on the phone, like he didn’t know how much it was absolutely killing Sergio to hear his voice and not have him in his arms. As if he didn’t know that, no matter what it looked like on the outside, Sergio would never be able to stop a part of himself from loving Fernando.

He tried, he really did. Sergio worked so damn hard to forget all of the things he loved about Fernando, but it was impossible to erase it all from his mind. No matter how many months they spent apart, when they were pulled together again every summer, they inevitably fell into the same patterns as before. Rendezvous in quiet hotel rooms, lingering touches on the training ground. He always promised himself that it wouldn’t happen, but being around Fernando made it hard for him to think straight. His attraction to Fernando was impossible to resist for long and Sergio hated himself because he’d had Fernando all to himself once upon a time and he’d given it up. Before the secret hook ups, before the friends with benefits, they were together. Properly. But he’d broken up with Fernando when he was feeling hurt and stubbornness kept him from swallowing his pride until it was too late. By the time he came to his senses and begged for him back, Olalla was already pregnant. Sergio had waited too long and his chances of every having Fernando, at least significantly, were gone. So he kept settling for less and he never let himself find someone who could give him all the things Fernando couldn’t. Until Pilar.

When he found her, he cut all ties with Fernando, hoping to detox the man out of his system completely. Follow through with the breakup he initiated all those years ago once and for all. There were still so many things that reminded him of Fernando, so many times when he wished he could just text him like he used to when they were best friends, but Sergio never did. He restrained himself, because he knew the two of them could never repeat the past. His time with Fernando was over, no matter how much it sometimes felt like he would never find anyone that made him feel whole again. Pilar could not replace Fernando, but that was just something Sergio had accepted. He’d learned to live with the part of himself that would always miss Fernando, but that didn’t mean he could come back into his life now, making him question everything. 

“Fer, please. I’m _happy_.”

“I know you are,” he replied easily. “I’m not bitter, Sergio. I’m happy for you. I just wish sometimes that I could’ve been happy _with_ you.”

And Fernando would never know just how strongly that sentiment resonated with Sergio. Because he knows he’ll be happy with a family, happy with Pilar as his wife and the mother of his children, but he also knows that there will always be a part of him wondering how different things could’ve been if he’d stayed with Fernando instead.

“It’s too late now.”

It took all of Sergio’s will power not to crumble right now, to give Fernando the option of running away together, of leaving everything else behind. Neither of them were the type to do it, but just the thought of having Fernando made Sergio want to escape this life he’d built for himself. If he could just have Fernando, he doesn’t think he’d need anything else. But they’d been down this path enough times for him to know that Fernando didn’t feel the same. He didn’t love Sergio more than he loved his career or more than he loved his wife and kids. He loved Sergio only as long as he could not ever have him. Like the sun loved the moon, they were destined to chase each other until the end of eternity, meeting only in the rarest of circumstances. And only ever briefly.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Me too.”


	8. distance is one hell of a bastard.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cristiano Ronaldo/Ricardo Kaka  
> Set 2013

_8; distance is_

_one hell of a bastard._

Cristiano picked at his nailbeds nervously, glaring at his fingers with a ridiculous amount of intensity. He glanced up every few moments to stare out the window of his hotel room, but just the sight of the Swedish city below was making his stomach flutter.

“I’ve never been this nervous,” he admitted into the phone.

He always hated showing his vulnerabilities, but it was just Kaka and Cristiano had long entrusted him with the task of dealing with his emotions, both good and bad.

“Don’t be. You just have to go out on the pitch and do what you always do.”

Cristiano paused, worrying a lip between his teeth. “But what if that’s not enough?”

“You shouldn’t worry about your-”

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” he snapped, frustration seeping into his tone. “It’s my teammates.”

He felt guilty for yelling at Kaka when it wasn’t his fault and for complaining about his teammates. He knew what he sounded like: selfish, arrogant, spoilt. Anyone else would have hung up on him by now. Sergio definitely would have. Iker, too. But somehow, Kaka didn’t scold him. Barely sighed. He was as patient as ever.

“You need to trust them,” Kaka replied calmly. “They want to win, too. Don’t you think they want to go to the World Cup?”

“I don’t know if they do,” Cris muttered. “They don’t always play like they do.”

“Cris…”

“No! It’s so frustrating,” he burst, unable to keep his voice low anymore. “Because this is all I want, so much I could scream, and there is still a chance it won’t matter. If I play my best. If I give 100 percent. Maybe I still cannot win by my will power alone.”

“You’re Cristiano Ronaldo. If anyone can take a nation on their back and carry them to glory, it’s you.”

Kaka’s response was a testament to how long he’d been close to Cristiano. There was a time when he would not have been as indulgent towards him, warning him not to be conceited, but now he would never dare say that. He’d gotten to know the real Cristiano and Kaka realized the man was not conceited at all. He was confident, fully believing in his own ability, because if he wasn’t, who else would be? Someone needed to believe in the skinny boy from Madeira. Cristiano was the player he was today only because he worked for it, not because of natural ability or opportunity. He learned from a young age that a tireless work ethic was the only thing that was going to get him where he wanted to go. The power was in his hands. If he wanted to be the best, he just had to believe he could be and work to make it a reality. There was no room for doubt. That was everyone else’s job, to question and hesitate. Cristiano’s job was to make the impossible a reality.

“Of course. I’ll show FIFA who the best player in the world is. Blatter will be eating his words.”

“Cris,” Kaka cautioned. 

“What? He started this. Calling me the Commander. He’s just mad that I’m a threat to his precious ‘good boy’ Leo Messi.”

He sounded petulant and bitter, but he cared very little.

“You’re being childish.”

Usually, Cristiano would have bristled at that, but this was Kaka. It was difficult for Cris to control his tongue at times, which has gotten him into trouble a number of times, and usually, he was too prideful to admit he had been wrong. Privately, he always felt bad after his anger had dissipated, but it was a laughable idea that he would ever let the press hear of that. They were always out for blood and Cristiano didn’t care what they had to say about him. It meant little. He did his talking on the pitch.

Which is why real life was difficult sometimes. He was awful at controlling his emotions, but the difficulty was making sure he expressed them in the way he meant to. Too many times people misunderstood. He meant one thing and they assumed the other. It wasn’t like that with Kaka, though. No matter how poorly his words came out, it was as if Kaka was inside his head. He knew when to call Cristiano out on his shit, not that he would ever phrase it that way, but he also knew how to get to the root of what he was saying. Kaka was kind, sincere in his words, and always honest. It was almost more than Cris deserved, to have someone who knew him so perfectly.

People thought they made an odd pair. Their media personas were complete opposites: Cristiano was the arrogant and egotistic hot shot, while Kaka was the selfless and devout church boy. These personalities were exaggerated, of course, by the Spanish press that had been scandalized by their obvious friendship. Yes, Cristiano could come off as selfish and vain to someone who didn’t know him, whereas Kaka could never be considered those things, but the two were not so different. It wasn’t as if Kaka made Cristiano a better person; he simply saw what no one else could.

And it’d been so immensely difficult for Cristiano these past few months, with Kaka in Italy and him in Spain. He felt like people looked at him all day, but no one could _see_ him, not really. Not like Kaka did. Not with compassion and acceptance, even when Cristiano didn’t deserve it.

“I miss you,” he sighed.

There was a pause and Cristiano waited with baited breath for the response.

Kaka swallowed hard. “I miss you very much, too.”

Cristiano wanted to tell him to come back to Madrid, to tell him that the team needed him, which was just another way of saying that _Cristiano_ needed him, that he was struggling without him. He wanted to tell him that they could try again. That they should have given it a better chance than they did. That Spain and Italy were not so far and that they could keep living in their fantasy. That if they were together, the rest of the world would fall into place.

It’s just that Cristiano was used to working for what he wanted. He had begun to believe that he could create his own destiny with just his two feet. Want to go to the World Cup? Score goals and beat Sweden. Want to win La Decima? Outlast the best teams in Europe and show off your winning mentality. Want to earn the Ballon D’or? Work harder than anyone else in the world and make them all believe that you’re the best they’ve ever seen.

But here he was, wanting Kaka more than he’d ever wanted anything, and unable to do a damn thing about it. Because it didn’t matter who he was or what he did. Nothing could lessen the distance between Madrid and Milan and nothing could bring them back together.


	9. I still think you’re cute as hell, but there’s a mess inside your head that I just don’t have the time to sort out. call me up when you know who you are, and maybe we can try again (but probably not).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cesc Fabregas/Iker Casillas  
> Set 2015

_9; I still think you’re cute as hell,_

_but there’s a mess inside your head that_

_I just don’t have the time to sort out._

_call me up when you_

_know who you are, and maybe_

_we can try again_

_(but probably not)._

The first time he’d seriously considered it was towards the end of the season. The team had been traveling to Cornellà de Llobregat for an away match and it was when the team was eating in the hotel lobby that Iker found out he wasn’t going to be starting. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep his emotions from showing through.

“I don’t understand how someone’s mood can become so tragic so quickly.”

Iker had grumbled at the sound of his friend’s voice coming up behind him. He just wanted to be alone, to mope in his misery and misfortune. He didn’t have the patience to put up with the eternal sunshine that was Sergio Ramos. 

“Screw you.”

“Aw I’m just teasing, Iker,” Sergio had insisted.

“Go away.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked sincerely, sinking into the open seat next to him.

“Everything,” Iker replied crossly.

“I doubt that.”

Iker huffed and continued to glare at the meal his trainers picked out for him. He hadn’t understood why they were so focused on his diet anyway. The manager never let him play. It was all a sick humorless joke. Making him go through the motions just to embarrass him in front of the whole world. They thought they could treat him like shit because Madrid was his home, his only club. It was unthinkable to them that Iker would ever leave, that they could push him to his breaking point. Well, he was done taking everyone’s shit. This was it. San Iker was going to commit a cardinal sin and excommunicate himself from Real _goddamn_ Madrid.

“I’m done,” he decided. “I hate everything.”

“Oh come on, Iker,” Sergio sighed. “You’re being childish.”

“I am not,” the keeper defended sullenly.

“You are being such a kid you might as well be Cesc. Just got to put you in a number four jersey and ship you off to-”

“Maybe you should,” Iker interrupted.

"What? Make you Cesc? God knows we don’t need another one…”

“No. Send me away. Somewhere that actually appreciates me.”

“And leave Madrid?” Sergio’s face fell as confused flashed in his eyes. “What are you talking about? You can’t.”

“Why the hell not?” he shot back.

“We need you! You’re the Captain!”

“Maybe not for long.”

There was a time when Iker would’ve agreed with Sergio. A time when he thought that he needed to stay despite what the fans thought, despite the treatment he was receiving. When leaving was the farthest thing from his mind. But things had changed. It wasn’t always about loyalty and honor. Sometimes, it had to be about pride. No one in this sport was going to look out for your best interest except for you. He wasn’t being a martyr staying at Madrid; he was being a fool. It just took him some time to realize.

That conversation had been weeks ago, but Iker hadn’t been able to shake it from his mind. It was pressing, constantly, and he had been desperate for someone to talk to. Sergio didn’t understand, but how could he? They still loved him in Madrid, sung his name with unrivaled pride. He was not yet disillusioned. To Iker, on the other hand, Madrid had lost a bit of its shine. So he looked beyond Madrid for someone who could understand what he was feeling. The answer was apparent right away. He didn’t want to admit this lingering thought was the reason for his weekend trip to London, but he couldn’t deny it for long.

London felt easier than Spain. Cesc was pleasant when Iker arrived, friendly as always. He showed him around his flat, chatting animatedly about his most recent holiday. Daniella had taken the kids to see her parents so it was just the two of them. Cesc brought him out for dinner, then drinks, and when they’d stumbled back to Cesc’s in the middle of the night, they’d been too tired to do more than collapse on top of the sheets.

In the morning, Iker hadn’t been able to resist kissing Cesc awake, admiring the lazy way in which he stirred. After that, it hadn’t taken much to get the younger man going. It was only in the aftermath that Iker’s previous worries came back, raddling in his brain until he couldn’t keep quiet any longer.

“Can I ask you a question?” he asked, carding his fingers through the sweaty strands stuck to Cesc’s forehead.

They were in bed, staring up at the ceiling in content silence. Cesc cuddled closer, nuzzling his nose into the crook of Iker’s neck, and nodded.

“What’s up?”

“What made you leave Barcelona?”

Cesc tensed, stilling all of his motions, and for a second, Iker thought he’d asked the wrong thing. But eventually, Cesc sighed slightly, pulling away. He searched Iker’s eyes before answering.

“They wanted me gone, you know?” he admitted, stretching out on the bed. The white bed sheet barely concealing his naked body.

Iker hummed, absentmindedly running his fingers over Cesc’s outstretched hand. He was searching Cesc’s face for any sign of emotion, but there was none. He was perfectly composed.

“I hadn’t lived up to their expectations. They only want the best in the world, you know. I wasn’t as good as they hoped I would be.”

“Cesc…”

“No, it’s fine. I’m over it. Just sucks that they worked so hard to bring me back and it turns out I wasn’t worth it. They should’ve just left me in England.”

There was regret in his voice that Iker couldn’t identify with.

“But you always dreamed of playing for Barca. It’s your boyhood club. You can’t regret getting that opportunity.”

“I don’t know. I don’t exactly regret it, but now the whole world knows I wasn’t good enough. I think I would’ve been happy never knowing that. Always wondering if maybe they had made a mistake letting me go. But they weren’t wrong. They knew I’d never make it. I just feel like an idiot now. One of the most high profile transfers and three seasons later, they threw me out.”

“You know that’s not necessarily true. You chose to leave,” Iker insisted.

“Maybe, maybe not. But the fact was the fans didn’t like me.”

And Iker knew from experience how quickly adoration could turn to condemnation. It didn’t matter if you were revered for a decade. All of that could change. One wrong move and people didn’t love you anymore. But it didn’t matter. You still play for your team. 

“Fans are fickle. You can’t listen to what they say. They’re never pleased. That didn’t mean you had to leave.”

 “I couldn’t play to whistles, Iker. Jeers from my own side. I can’t play like that. And when Guardiola left, it was clear there would be no room for me. Xavi said I’d take his spot, but even at his age, he was beating me for it. I was never going to play.”

“So you gave up?”

“It wasn’t giving up, Iker. It was knowing when to move on. My time with Barca was done, whether I wanted it to be or not. No one was going to change my mind.”

“And God knows Geri tried. He’d made it clear he wanted you to stay.”

“Yeah, but he’s my best friend. He had to say that.”

“He didn’t though. He even defended your honor, saying he was happy for you at Chelsea and admitting to the media that they didn’t appreciate you enough at Barca. Which was ballsy, even for him and his big mouth.”

“You know how Geri is. He always has to add flames to the fire.”

“Yeah he does. When it’s about Real Madrid or Spain. But he loves Barcelona. For him to speak out against them… well, he must really love you.”

Cesc closed his eyes, turned his body slightly away from Iker and hiked up the sheet.

“Don’t.”

“What? It’s true.” Iker’s voice was calm. “I don’t care; you know it doesn’t bother me.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” Cesc replied sourly. “But it bothers me. I don’t want to talk about Geri right now. Not when we’re like this.” He gestured to their bodies.

“Do you wish I was him?”

Cesc huffed, shoving Iker away angrily.

“Don’t talk like that!”

“But do you?” he insisted curiously, wrapping his arms around Cesc snuggly.

“Don’t put this on me. If anyone is using anyone here, it’s you using me.”

“Am I now?” he mused.

“Yes. I’m not stupid, Iker. You’re here because you’re upset. I’m not naïve enough to think it’s because you can’t keep yourself away from me.”

Cesc sat up, reaching for his clothes that were piled next to the bed, but Iker grabbed his arm, pulling him back.

“I do like you though. You know I do. I traveled across Europe just to talk to you.”

Cesc looked at him sadly, with eyes that knew too much for someone his age, eyes that held pity for Iker. Which was new and Iker didn’t like it. He didn’t know when Cesc had turned into an adult. He’d always been the giggling kid of the team. Never too serious. Iker thought that if one person could loosen the tightness in his chest, it would be Cesc.

“You don’t get it.” Cesc shook his head sadly.

“What?” Iker asked, unnerved.

“You came here looking for advice, so here it is. I understand what you’re feeling. I know it’s different, yes, because you’ve never been anywhere but Madrid, but I get what it’s like to have your boyhood club turn their back. It’s just… you can’t let it destroy you. And you can’t come running to me anymore when you don’t know what you want.”

“But that’s what we do,” Iker explained wearily. “We help each other.”

“It was okay before. When we were younger. When we were both longing after people we couldn’t have, wishing for things beyond our reach. You were attractive and it made some kind of twisted sense that we gravitated towards each other. But don’t you think we’re a little old for this now?”

“Old? _Mierda_ , Cesc. You’re 28 for God’s sake.”

“Exactly. This isn’t a game anymore. I can’t convince myself that sleeping with my teammates is harmless. It’s not okay. I have Daniella. I have my step kids and my two daughters, who I love more than anything. And they make me feel like enough in a way nothing else ever could. Football, that’s secondary. My family is first now. So I’m done with the fooling around, okay?” 

“I love my family, too, Cesc. It’s just sometimes… I need to get away from it all.”

The expression on Cesc’s face told Iker all he needed to know. He didn’t understand.

“I want to help you, Iker, I do, but not like this. You have things to work out. Your career, your future. But Iker, there’s more to life than football. And I’m not going to be the one that enables you to think otherwise anymore. Because if I do, you’re going to wake up one day after you’ve retired and think, _what do I have left?_ And I’m not going to be able to help you.”

“When did you get so sensible?” Iker grumbled, trying slightly to lighten the mood. “You used to be the lost puppy of the team.”

“Yeah, well, I learned from my captain,” Cesc explained, leveling Iker with a meaningful glance. “He always did know the right thing to do.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think in the comments. Special thanks to my best friend Katie for brainstorming with me and reading every part of this a hundred times until I was satisfied with it. I couldn't have done this without you.


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